


The Amazing Race

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft proves a point while John considers celibacy. Sibling rivalry takes center stage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Amazing Race

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [This Prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=39668683#t39668683) \- science tells us that thinner men achieve orgasm faster than their more meaty counterparts. 
> 
> Not mine, no money.

"Sherlock, why is there a stopwatch and your laptop in the bedroom?" John asked, coming in from the bathroom. 

"Hmm?" Sherlock was lying on his stomach across the bed, fiddling with something on the laptop. 

"Good God, is that Skype?" John asked. 

"Obviously. Ah, there you are Mycroft." Sherlock levered himself upright, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

"Sherlock, what is your brother doing … why are you video chatting … Christ! He's practically naked!" John stared in horror at the screen. 

"Hello, John," Mycroft greeted him. "I trust you and my brother are ready?"

John looked at his hands – he knew he should never have picked up Kafka just to impress Sherlock – and found they were blessedly still looking like hands (and not tentacles). 

"Okay," he said with a sigh. "Let's start from the beginning."

"Mycroft?" A woman's voice floated into their bedroom from the computer. "Are you ready?"

"ANTHEA?"

"Oh, hello, Dr Watson."

"It's quite simple, John. According to an article in the Journal of Nosy Statistics and Useless Knowledge," Sherlock began to lecture. John sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "According to the article, men who are thinner, who have less superfluous fat on them…" a saucy glance towards the laptop screen where Mycroft was glowering at them. "Achieve orgasm faster."

"… and you want to _test_ this?" John asked after a long pause.

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a long-suffering look. 

"Of _course_ , John," they said in unison. 

"Oh, Christ." John buried his head in his hands and then looked up. "And you're okay with this, Anthea?" he asked the computer.

Anthea's face appeared on the screen. 

"Of course," she said. John manfully raised his eyes to hers. Just because he was sleeping with (and okay, madly in love with) Sherlock didn't mean that he didn't enjoy the occasional sight of a beautiful woman. 

A beautiful woman who happened to be wearing nothing but a smile and part of a bed sheet. 

"I believe you are prepared, John?" Sherlock asked. 

"Erm, you're not serious."

"I am quite serious."

"With a video chat going of your brother having it off with his PA?"

"If you must be vulgar about it, yes," said Mycroft. 

"Shall we then?" Sherlock asked, pulling John onto his back. "Are you ready, Mycroft?"

"Indeed," replied the other man, rising and dropping his robe. "I am currently completely flaccid. Anthea?"

"Yes, completely," Anthea replied, shimmying out of the sheet. John snapped his head forward to stare at the ceiling so fast that he nearly sprained his neck.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock dropped his robe. "Completely flaccid. John?" He turned for confirmation. 

John looked down. _He_ certainly wasn't excited to be here. 

"John?"

"Hm, oh, yes… completely flaccid." John squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to remember when exactly he'd invited his brother-in-law into their sex life. 

He couldn't. 

Sherlock's voice.

"… and in three, two, one… begin."

And suddenly Sherlock's hands were on him, as was his mouth in _just_ that spot that was guaranteed to make John moan. 

"Let go, John," Sherlock murmured into his ear and John, helpless to do anything but obey, moaned, his thighs falling apart as Sherlock began to kiss and stroke his way down John's body. 

During their normal bouts of intercourse, blowjobs from Sherlock were… well, heavenly. 

John couldn't help but feel that this one was a little rushed.

Over the computer, he could hear Anthea whispering to Mycroft and his answering chuckle, cut off by a gasp.

"John, come _on_." Sherlock, now fully hard, was kneeling between John's thighs. "Condom."

"Huh?"

" _Condom_."

"Oh, right." John tossed the foil-wrapped packet at him. "Erm, weren't you going to…"

"Of course. Lube?" 

"Here."

John sneaked a look at the computer screen. Mycroft was sliding over Anthea, his mouth and hands busy with what appeared to be an impressive set of breasts. 

And then he heard Anthea's shuddering gasp. 

Which was exactly the moment that Sherlock slipped a cold, lubed finger into him. 

"Fuck!" John jerked his gaze back to Sherlock. 

"Oh, sorry," Sherlock murmured, sliding a second finger into him. 

It was… oh, fuck, yes, right there, as Sherlock's other hand wrapped around his cock. 

"Oh, oh, _oh_ , MYCROFT," Anthea moaned. From anyone else it would have sounded like a cheap porno, but as John stole another look at the screen, watching as Mycroft moved within his PA (obviously more than his PA), he couldn't help but suppress a twinge of jealousy. 

From above him, as he eased into him, Sherlock snorted.

"She's obviously faking it," he muttered. 

Mycroft raised his head from Anthea's breast. 

"Think again, little brother," he said, groaning as Anthea shifted beneath him. 

"Oh, fuck, _John_!" Sherlock said, eyes rolling back in his head as he pulled John's hips onto his thighs and began to thrust in earnest. 

John snuck another glance at the computer screen. 

Mycroft wasn't _really_ all that fat, he reflected. Rather svelte, actually. Not skeletal like Sherlock, but certainly not…

Sherlock jerked once, twice, and cursed again, sagging forward to kiss John's temple. 

And then immediately hit the stopwatch. 

"Take that, fatty!" he crowed at the computer screen. "Two minutes and forty-three seconds!"

There was no response from the other couple. 

Sherlock withdrew, pulled off the condom, and waved it at the computer. 

"You see? Empirical proof that thinner men achieve faster orgasm! _Told_ you, Mycroft."

Still no reply. The unmistakable sounds of sex – enjoyable sex, too – filtered through the speakers. 

Sherlock sat back on his haunches, frowning at the laptop.

John shifted out from beneath him. He could feel the blush rising up his cheeks. 

It was worse than being kidnapped and bribed to look after Sherlock. 

It was worse than the three-hour staring contests every Tuesday. 

It was bloody unfair. 

"Are you quite finished?" John asked pointedly. "Because I rather fancy some tea."

"Hm? Of course."

John eased his way off the bed. "Are you done with this?" he asked Sherlock, gingerly picking up the used condom from where it was draped messily across the keyboard. "Because I don't think you want…"

"Fine, of course." Sherlock was sitting, his knees pulled up to his chin, glaring at the computer. He waved his hand. "Tea would be … fine."

John took a shower first. Then dressed.

After that, he made tea. 

When he returned to the bedroom, Mycroft and Anthea were in what was unmistakably a doggy-style position, and Anthea was, from the looks of things, enjoying herself immensely. 

Sherlock had not moved at all. 

John handed him a mug of tea and sat beside him. 

Mycroft drew back, ran a hand down the curve of Anthea's back, and with three sharp thrusts and a groan that sounded suspiciously like, "my _love_ ," he came. 

Anthea smiled at the computer and clicked off the stopwatch on Mycroft's nightstand. 

"Care to comment, little brother?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock leaped forward and snapped the computer shut, flouncing off of the bed and to the bathroom, frankly shriveled cock flapping. 

John buried his head in his hands and groaned as Sherlock slammed the bathroom door.

"Sherlock?" John called after him.

"What." Sherlock's tousled head appeared.

"Don't you even _think_ about leaving your wet towel on the floor when you're done with the shower," John said, getting off the bed. "I'm going … out. And I won't be back for a while."

"Whatever." Sherlock slammed the door again. 

John resisted the urge to throw the laptop at it. 

As he was leaving, John heard the shower start up with a spiteful hiss of water. 

It occurred to him that never, ever having sex again would be a good thing. Especially if having sex (with anybody, but most of all Sherlock fucking Holmes) would involve the mental soundtrack of Anthea's breathy cries of "Oh, MYCROFT".

He stopped on the corner of Baker Street, pulled his out his mobile, and hit an oft-dialed number. 

"Hiya, Greg? It's John," he said. "Would you, erm, mind if I kipped with you and Sarah tonight? Sherlock's just, erm… he's just lost a bet. Yeah… maybe for the next few nights?"


End file.
